Johnny McCord was in no mood for pleasantries. He snapped, "Who's supposed to be on Bedouin patrol down there?"
She blinked at him. "Why, Mohammed is in command of patrolling this area, Mr. McCord."
"Mohammed? Mohammed who? Eighty percent of these Malians are named Mohammed."
"Captain Mohammed Mohmoud ould Cheikh." She added, unnecessarily, "The Cadi's son."
Johnny grunted. He'd always suspected that the captain had got his ideas of what a cadi's son should be like from seeing Hollywood movies. "Look, Kate," he said. "Let me talk to Mellor, will you?"
Her face faded to be replaced by that of a highly tanned, middle-aged executive type. He scowled at Johnny McCord with a this-better-be-important expression, not helping Johnny's disposition.
He snapped, "Somebody's let several thousand goats into my eucalyptus transplants in my western four hundred."